


the taste of poison on her lips

by Arbryna



Category: Dexter (TV)
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Power Play, Rough Sex, Sibling Incest, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-20 01:39:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2410301
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arbryna/pseuds/Arbryna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mid-S7, Debra pays Hannah a visit to warn her off of Dexter. That's...not what ends up happening.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the taste of poison on her lips

She’s in the greenhouse when Deb finds her, puttering around like a perfectly normal fucking person—like she doesn’t have a body count, like it’s just plants she’s fucking around with and not potential murder weapons. 

One day soon, Deb will see Hannah McKay behind fucking bars. She had other ideas, more permanent ones, but Dexter has chosen fucking _now_ to change his pattern of always being there for her, so she’ll have to take care of it herself. It doesn’t matter—one way or another, that two-faced bitch is going to be out of their lives—Deb is going to make fucking sure of it. 

“Stay the fuck away from my brother.”

There’s no trace of surprise on Hannah’s face when she turns around. Of course; like any good criminal she probably heard Deb coming long before she stomped into the doorway of the greenhouse. There’s a smudge of dirt high on her cheekbone, so fucking perfectly haphazard it’s like she applied it with a brush. Just another piece of her bullshit girl-next-door facade. “Dexter’s a big boy,” Hannah replies coolly. She leans back against her work table, crosses her arms. “I think he can make his own choices.” 

Before Hannah can react—fuck, before Deb can even _think_ —the distance between them disappears. Deb looms over Hannah, hands gripping the edge of the table on either side of the woman’s waist. Can’t wriggle your way out of this one, bitch. “That wasn’t a fucking request,” Deb hisses into Hannah’s ear. 

But Hannah doesn’t spook, doesn’t back down. Instead, inexplicably, she seems to relax; her arms unfold, hands bracing against the edge of the table mere millimeters away from Deb’s. “Careful, Lieutenant.” She’s not even talking, she’s fucking _purring_ , and she arches her body just enough to brush against Deb’s. “If a customer came in here they might think you were coming on to me.” 

Deb snorts, suppressing the urge to smack the fucking smirk off of the blonde’s face. If she’s trying to shock Deb, if this is some kind of fucked up game, Deb is sure as fuck at least going to win. “You’d fuckin’ like that, wouldn’t you?” She gives Hannah her best detective face, all narrowed eyes and smug superiority. “If I fell under your fucked up spell just like my brother did. It’d make your life a hell of a lot fuckin’ easier, wouldn’t it?”

Hannah’s eyes drop deliberately to Deb’s mouth as she shrugs. “I can’t argue with that,” she murmurs, her smirk somehow only getting _more_ irritating, if that’s even possible. There’s a faint flush starting underneath that goddamn smudge of dirt, and a breathless edge to her voice, and for a second Deb’s not actually sure if shocking her is the end goal here. 

Damn, she’s fucking good. 

Deb shakes her head, gives Hannah a patronizing smile. “Not gonna fuckin’ happen, sweetheart.” She makes eye contact, surges forward to speak the words directly into Hannah’s face. “Sorry to disappoint you, but I like _dick_.” 

Hannah pulls her lower lip between her teeth, meeting Deb’s gaze head on. “So do I,” she practically fucking moans. She pushes forward again, pressing against the rigid prison of Deb’s frame. Her lips stop just shy of brushing against Deb’s ear. “Dexter’s especially.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Deb warns, knuckles turning white where she’s gripping the table. 

“Hard and thick,” Hannah continues, the words sounding absurdly obscene from her lips. “And he’s an incredible lover, your brother. He’ll push you right to the edge, force you out of your comfort zone, but the whole time you just know that you’re safe.”

Without a thought, Deb has Hannah’s throat in her hand. “Shut the fuck up!” Heat is flushing her face, and Deb tries to convince herself it’s all just anger but Hannah’s words hit deep—fantasies of Dexter touching her, of him inside of her, flash in her mind even as Hannah’s pulse hammers against her palm. 

Hannah just lifts her chin, moistens her lips. “Make me.” 

Deb’s fingers press in a bit harder, blunt nails digging into the soft skin of Hannah’s throat. She tells herself it’s disgust swelling in the back of her own, making it difficult to breathe. “Don’t make me fuckin’ shoot you, ‘cause I _so_ fuckin’ will.” 

“Mm…” Hannah hums, eyes carefully dragging over Deb’s face. “I don’t doubt it. But I don’t think that’s what you want to do to me right now.” 

“You’re fuckin’ delusional,” Deb scoffs, with maybe a bit too much venom. Her hand starts to feel clammy against Hannah’s skin.

“Am I?” Hannah pushes her hips forward, sudden and quick, causing Deb to gasp at the unexpected contact. “Yeah, you’re probably right,” she concedes with a knowing smirk. “I mean how twisted would it be to want to fuck your brother’s evil girlfriend?” Then her lips are glancing over Deb’s ear, the barest touch as she plays her trump card. “Almost as twisted as wanting to fuck your brother.” 

Deb’s blood runs cold, dread pooling sick in the bottom of her stomach. Is she that fucking transparent? She shoves Hannah back, catches a brief glimpse of reddened finger marks before she turns around. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.” 

“Oh, I think I do.” Deb can feel Hannah behind her, stepping closer until breasts are brushing gently against Deb’s back. Hannah’s voice is sultry and triumphant. “I think your panties are soaked right now, and it’s either for me or him. So which is it?”

Clenched jaw, eyes shut tight, Deb tries to work up the ability to lie, but fuck if she’s not even sure what the real answer _is_ anymore. This is not how she saw this going. 

She whirls around violently, pinning Hannah back against the table. “I told you to shut the fuck up.” 

“And I told you to make me.” Hannah juts out her chin, a defiant smirk on her lips. 

Deb hates that smirk, hates those fucking lips—but Dexter doesn’t. He’s kissed them, done fuck knows what else to them, and she’s struck by the crazy thought that she might be able to taste him before her brain takes a sudden and inconvenient fucking vacation.

That’s the only explanation for the taste of blood in her mouth—her blood or Hannah’s, fuck if she knows. For the surprising softness and warmth of Hannah’s body caught between Deb and the table, for the groan that catches in her throat when Hannah’s mouth tugs at her lower lip. There’s a faint herby taste on Hannah’s tongue; Deb wonders idly if this is just some extremely contrived plot to poison her, but can’t quite work out how that would work.

Christ, this is absolutely fucking insane. Deb should be running way the fuck in the other direction, should be devoting every thought and breath and moment to finding the evidence that will put Hannah McKay behind bars.

Instead Deb buries her hand in blonde hair, curls it into a fist and savors the whimper she pulls from Hannah’s lips. If she’s going to prove the bitch right, she can at least make it hurt a little. 

Hannah doesn’t protest the harsh treatment, doesn’t flinch away when Deb jams a knee between her legs. Does Dexter pull her hair like this? Plunge his tongue into her mouth until she fucking chokes on it, grip hard enough at her hip to leave bruises? It’s funny, but Deb still can’t picture Dexter being violent or rough—fucking hilarious, to expect her fucking serial killer brother to be gentle during sex.

Fucking shitballs, she’s about to fuck her brother’s girlfriend. Her brother who she also wants to fuck. When the fuck did her life get so fucked up? 

She doesn’t have time to ponder it, because Hannah’s hands settle on her hips, and Deb freezes instantly. She may have accepted that this is happening—however fucking disastrous of an idea it is—but that does _not_ mean she’s okay with a goddamn serial killer touching her.

Well, not _this_ serial killer. 

Hannah is still, regarding Deb with curious half-lidded eyes. It makes Deb feel uncomfortable, fucking naked or something, like she’s being judged, and she can’t fucking take it right now. 

It’s a classic takedown maneuver, one she’s executed plenty of times; Hannah barely has time to brace her hands on the table when Deb spins her around and shoves her against it. 

“You need control,” Hannah murmurs, her voice all smug desire as she presses her hips back against Deb. “Something you two have in common.” 

Deb’s nostrils flare as she yanks Hannah’s head back with the hand still buried in her hair. There’s a hickey just visible under the edge of Hannah’s shirt, and she can’t fucking take her eyes off of it. “Sucks to be you, then.” 

“I don’t know,” Hannah gasps when Deb’s mouth closes over the fading bruise. “I can think of worse fates.” 

It doesn’t seem logical, that there should be anything special about this particular patch of skin; but _his_ mouth was here, and somehow that sends a violent jolt of electricity right to her fucking clit. With her free hand, Deb reaches around and grabs one of Hannah’s breasts, squeezing it roughly through her shirt. 

“You know this has nothing to do with you, right?” Deb pants in Hannah’s ear. She snakes her hand under the shirt, yanks down Hannah’s bra so she can tug at a nipple. With her eyes closed, she can imagine Dexter’s hand where hers is, bigger and rougher. “You’re fucking _convenient_ , that’s all.” 

“If—” Hannah gasps, breathless and distracted. She’s fucking getting off on this, and Deb doesn’t know whether to be disgusted or smug. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself, Deb.” 

“Shut up,” Deb hisses, her fingers tightening in blonde hair. Her other hand drops to the fly of Hannah’s jeans, fumbling angrily with the button. “We’re not fucking friends. You don’t get to call me that.” 

“Should I call you Mistress instead?” Hannah cracks. There’s a faint whine in her voice, almost desperate—like maybe she’d be okay with that. Or maybe she’s still trying to manipulate Deb, even now. 

Deb ignores the insolent question in favor of shoving Hannah’s jeans and underwear down. Hannah offers a hand, and then they’re bunched down below her ass, exposing her bare flesh to the humid greenhouse air. Deb grabs a handful, twists just enough to pull a gasp from Hannah’s throat. 

“Does he fuck you like this?” Deb growls, breathing heavily into Hannah’s ear. Her hand slips down between Hannah’s legs, fingers sliding over slick, swollen warmth. Jesus fuck Hannah is wet. “Like a fucking animal?”

“S-sometimes.” 

It was supposed to be a taunt, a way of maintaining control, but the wanton edge of the word strikes Deb with a desperate, urgent need. She shoves two fingers deep into Hannah, adds a third when they slide in too easily. It’s all fucked up in her head now—her and Dexter, Dexter and Hannah, her and Hannah. She doesn’t know what makes her hotter—the fantasy of being in Hannah’s place, with her brother behind her steady and strong and so fucking hot, or the reality of holding this much power over a woman she fucking hates so much. 

Because there’s no mistaking who has the power here. She has Hannah fucking McKay bent over a damn greenhouse table, fingers buried deep, and Hannah can’t escape or even come without Deb’s permission. 

Hannah is getting close already; Deb can feel it in the frantic clenching of her pussy, hear it in her shallow urgent breaths. Her knuckles are white where she grips the edge of the table, her back and shoulders rigid. 

“D-De—” Hannah sputters, and Deb doesn’t know if it’s her name or Dexter’s Hannah is trying to get out, but it’s fucking hot. 

“Fuckin’ say it,” Deb groans, thrusting hard and fast and rough. 

It takes a few more tries, stilted gasps interrupted by frantic moans. Finally Hannah clenches tight around Deb’s fingers, her whole body snapping taut as she comes. Deb doesn’t even realize she was grinding against Hannah’s hip until she hears Dexter’s name spill from those toxic lips, and _goddamnit she is not this fucking easy_ , but that’s besides the fucking point because only a few moments later she’s fucking coming too, burying her teeth in Hannah’s shoulder to muffle her own cries. 

She barely has time to catch her breath, let alone process what the fuck just happened, when the sound of shuffling feet at the door makes her blood run cold. Fucking genius, Deb, let’s fuck our arch-enemy in her semi-public fucking greenhouse. She pulls her fingers out of Hannah, wipes them on her own jeans with her back stubbornly turned toward the door. More mortification is not something she needs right now. 

But Hannah makes no move to right herself; her swollen lips are pulled into something breathlessly smug, her eyes smoldering as hot as ever as she gazes over Deb’s shoulder. All the desire and anger and desperation Deb was feeling sinks to the bottom of her stomach, roiling with a sick certainty that she has just been caught by the very worst person possible.

Dexter clears his throat, in that awkward way he has. When Deb turns around, his expression is a familiar one; confused, processing, trying to make sense of what he’s seeing. “Um, it looks like you two are…working out your differences.”

Fucking perfect. Stuck in a room with two serial killers and she’s pretty sure neither of them will have the decency to kill her right now.


End file.
